The Other God
by ThaneDynamo
Summary: A sighting of a tall beast. A stone circle riddled with peculiarities. A secret society studying the abstract. Something which hangs over the town like a fog. And an eccentric intellectual...who researches a mysterious wanderer from beyond. Captivated by the unusual occurrences which have taken hold of his hometown, the life of amateur journalist Howard takes a horrifying turn.
1. Introduction

This story may seem repetitive when put next to _Healing Angels_ , in terms of it being a celebrity historical; the Doctor meets a famous historical figure and the two embark on an adventure with elements related to the figure themselves.

It is this which has influenced the nature of this story's narrative: it explores this dynamic in an innovative way.

The celebrity in question may not be as well known as the previous one. This person may not have made as much of an impact. Nevertheless, it is a meeting which has much potential, in that certain elements concerning this celebrity play a part in their encounter with the Time Lord, preferably an experience which inspires them to become what they are known for (stories such as _The Shakespeare Code_ , _The Unicorn and the Wasp_ have done this). Additionally, it would explore the psychology of the character using the setting of the show (executed successfully by _Vincent and the Doctor_ ).

This story is also my first attempt at writing horror. My preparation for this story took a longer time than anticipated due to my discovery of how difficult this genre is to write effectively. Fear is like comedy when it comes to the subjectivity of the matter. It is essential, I feel, to work on impact, and I have learned how some types of horror work more effectively than others. Jumpscares and gore may work to a certain extent, but nowhere near as much as the kind of horror that makes you _think_ , the kind that lets your imagination work against you.

This attempt has taken much inspiration from various stories of that genre, as a way of inspiring me when it comes to using the genre as effectively as possible. Stories such as _Silent Hill_ , _Eternal Darkness: Sanity's Requiem_ and _The Haunting (1963)_ have been especially influential.

As far as letting the reader's imagination work against them is concerned, there are attempts at applicability in the narrative. In other words, it is told in a manner that lets the reader think for themselves, to interpret what the story is telling. It probably won't be perfect, but it is the mark of a good writer to learn as they go, and improve along the way. As J.R.R. Tolkien once put it, in comparison to allegorical writing, "[applicability] resides in the freedom of the reader, and [allegory] in the purposed domination of the author". These are words which I have begun to live by as a writer, as I have a great deal of respect for stories that encourage the reader/viewer/player to interpret and analyse based on what they have experienced.

If you are predisposed to the effects of psychological horror, especially when it feuds in varying degrees with the opposing themes that _Doctor Who_ represents, then I would advise you to turn away. Knowledge is not always a gift to be treasured.

 _"I had no knowledge of what was to come. Nor did I care. How the knowledge changed me... It will also change you. As you read this, you will come to learn fear as I have. You too, will come to understand, or you will perish. To think that once I could not see beyond the veil of our reality, to see those who dwell behind. My life now has purpose, for I have learned the frailty of flesh and bone."_

\- Pious Augustus, _Eternal Darkness: Sanity's Requiem_


	2. Prologue: I am

... ... ...

Three words which encompass what I have essentially experienced, that year as a young man. They represent the events which involved my encounter with...Them.

For years, I have lived as one separate from others, a lone hermit amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces. My hometown stands as a realm within one far greater. Itself and I are fixed figures that are inhabited and surrounded respectively by the souls of the apathetic. Together, we endure the passing of time, witnessing the excessively rapid advancement of society, as equally distant from those countless individuals as they are from myself.

It is a connection so strong, and yet never has been as strong since my forgotten encounter upon and with the Threshold, after it cast its presence upon the town; since the sightings of the Beast from Outside ; since I made acquaintance with the esteemed expert of the arcane in the Esoteric Society.

Since I became enraptured, and repulsed, by an assembly of individuals from beyond who share a common title, who have been sighted across history.

Almost like the great E.A. Poe described in one of his works, no matter where I have gone and how far I have travelled, I have stood as an observer of the deep darkness, stuck in what felt like perpetual wonder, doubt...and fear. Ofttimes, I feel like the boundaries of my imagination have long since faded, and my work has taken inspiration from the realms beyond the borders of the reality in which we dwell, where dreams may take us. I feel like something in the deepest shadow of the void has been whispering in my ear, guiding me in my task of divulging the true meaning of fear as I write my tales, making them known to the world and its passive inhabitants.

I repeat these three words as I reminisce upon and paraphrase the statement I once admitted to a friend: _I am Providence_ , and Providence is myself. Together, indissolubly as one, we stand through the ages.

There is a bond between myself and my hometown. There is also one between myself and the beings which haunt the darkness of my mind. As those haunters once possessed Providence, those bonds intertwine and I grow afraid of what is represented by my imagination, of my own mind.

It is what we do not know that truly takes hold. Fear is the oldest and greatest emotion we have developed as a species, and the greatest kind of fear is that of the unknown.

I do not know what it was that drove the events of that period in my life, and that ignorance now exacerbates the current state of my mind, as I struggle to recall what I saw beyond and around the Threshold, as I have yet to discover the truth behind the individuals who collectively use a single title. I am most certain that I am not the only one to have been involved with those who name themselves "the Doctor", and I constantly ask myself whether I am the least fortunate to have done so.

Those three words remain a source of comfort for me as I suffer in the misfortunes of my life. I am home, for better or for worse.

I am Providence.

 _(Note written at the bottom of the page, in a different form of handwriting): The entry to the secret memoir of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, kept hidden allegedly in the name of humankind's sanity. Now in my possession...where it belongs._


	3. Chapter 1: The Presence from the Hills

I recall the chill that pervaded the town in 1917, a frigid sting manifest in the form of a dense haze. The silver vapour was similar in appearance to the more common fog that would sometimes occur. Yet it was here that the similarities ended, for the cold was unnatural. Such was the degree of its bitterness that the faces of the townsfolk were cloaked upon every breath they released, and my eyesight became clouded for an instant upon my own. Visibility was nonexistent a mere several metres away as the mist hung over the streets. Every passing citizen resembled no more than a dark shade floating through the grey curtain, hunched up against the sharpness of the air. This was all a mere insignificance compared to one simple fact...

The bitter mist came during the winter, and remained in the spring.

The winter in the north-east of the United States was particularly cold that year, to the extent that the Delaware river between New Jersey and Pennsylvania froze over, with 20-inch deep ice. The mist hung over that winter, thicker than the natural brume. Spring fell later and yet the mist persisted, keeping the newborn warmth at bay. The cold was unlike anything I felt in my lifetime, and yet, for some strange reason, the citizens of Providence paid no mind to it. They went about their own lives as if nothing was extraordinary in the slightest. The sheer apathy was as intriguing as the unnatural climate in which they were enveloped.

It was like a presence, the visitation of something that took an interest in this city. It felt like the manifestation of the empathy that existed between the town and myself, yet it also felt unwelcome. An invader from a foreign realm, it imposed itself upon this place I called home, like it was also part of it. It was a feeling I did not like. It felt both familiar and unfamiliar.

Regardless of this...peculiar weather, I focused on my profession.

My work at this given time consisted of amateur journalism. I saw it as a primary step towards writing for respectable journals and publishers. A humble entrance into such a profession, perhaps, yet it came hand in hand with my passion for writing, and I was made chairman of the United Amateur Press Association three years prior in the process. For a man such as myself, this could be seen as a major step in a direction I consider ideal.

It also coincided with my interest in the unusual. As curious as I was regarding the dense and frigid haar, my focus was on something different. A different kind of presence from what covered Providence like an eldritch consciousness.

An apparition that prowled the hills from which the Mist came.


	4. Chapter 2: The Picture of the Beast

My first sight of it was in a photograph, an image of the most degraded resolution. The opinion of fellow journalists was in the form of an accusation of the camera quality. As reasonable as this suggestion may seem at first, albeit mundane, it was also unreasonable. The photographer in question had a natural talent for his work, with the quality of his images of much better quality. The picture of the unidentified cryptid was the sole component of his work that came out in reduced quality.

It was as if the resolution was reduced by the cryptid itself, like facing the creature, for some unknown reason, creates visual distortion.

I shook this off at the time. It was the subject of the picture itself which caught my eye most of all. It was a report that was ignored by the majority of the local population, dismissed as a hoax related to the folklore of the Sasquatch. This related to the appearance of the creature, for it was a beast of a vaguely humanoid shape, except it was almost as tall as the trees that stood alongside it, and possessed a build far greater than even the bulkiest of humankind. This was most likely due to thick fur, if the Sasquatch was to be the official basis of this beast's physiology. The difficulty of identifying the creature was exacerbated by it supposedly being enveloped by the dense mist that pervaded the city.

What struck me most of all, however, were the eyes of the beast. They stood out as two large white spots amidst the graininess of the photograph. They stared at me as I examined the picture, prompting me to cease the examination for a while before resuming for a brief period.

The beast appeared to be patrolling the surrounding hills, like a silent watcher over the town, surveying its residents for some as yet unknown reason with its piercing eyes.

This belief on my part was based on how the beast appeared to patrol the surrounding wilds with a hint of purpose. After studying the picture, I took it upon myself to watch the hill around the time the photograph was taken, to not only verify any additional sightings, but to assess any signs of purpose in question.

Surely enough, the creature was present at that exact time.

It was more than a random sighting of a mere cryptid. There was a reason behind its presence, like it was in fact a sentry from beyond.

And the eyes were more intense in person. In the early stages of the night, they perforated the dense fog, like distant beacons that signalled a sense of discomfort. Whatever the nature of this creature, I considered myself fortunate to have had some distance between it and myself.

As I sat at my home desk one afternoon, it struck me that the direction I faced when I saw the beast was northwest.

What was interesting about this was that this direction was supposedly from where the fog originated.

A fog which came from a specific place, and the mysterious beast came from there also.

Overcome with curiosity, I decided to set out on an excursion.

I was so fixated on the potential of a fascinating discovery that I walked into a passing stranger. Excusing myself absentmindedly, I resumed my stride. Ignoring a strong gust, and the accompanying howl, of wind, I headed northwest to where the tall watcher resided, beyond the hills.


	5. Chapter 3: The Circle

Selecting the volume of my footsteps carefully, and keeping close attention to my surroundings, I crossed the hilltop in the direction from where the beast came.

Twilight began to fall at this point, its glow barely managing to pierce the dense fog that continued to cover the hilltop. I set to increasing the pace, for finding myself hopelessly lost in the mounts with a beast that, for all I knew, came to Providence with the intent of spiriting unassuming residents away for reasons unknown, was something I wished less than anything else. Amidst the haste that accompanied my pursuit of the unbeaten path was a most profound hope that I would come across something worthy of discovery.

The darkness intensified as I continued my stride, growing desperate for some form of discovery before I would catch sight of those large glowing eyes, which I imagined as being at their most intense in the darkness of the night.

My heart was thumping upon every heavy step I made. With the anticipation of what was to come, however, I began to suspect that the heavy thumps belonged to something else, probably to the subject of my investigation. It undoubtedly sensed my approach to its hidden abode somewhere beyond. I often looked over my shoulder, prepared for the sight of the crepuscular sky being obscured by a towering mass looking down on me with its forbidding and penetrating gaze. My footsteps accelerated with my heartbeat, and I persevered. I climbed a slight rise, ascending towards the cloaked darkness of the night sky.

And there stood the first point of interest of my excursion.

It may not have been the lair of the tall beast that haunted the city, yet it gave me a sense of awe when I looked upon it.

Even when the haze was at its densest here, I managed to identify a circle of stones that stood in assembly around a central altar.

I read numerous books on the subject of stone circles in my youth, since I developed a particular interest in archaeology. Their origins were steeped in the distant ages of this earth, enveloped in mystery. I looked upon sketches of these numerous monuments, and became familiar with their design, as symbols of the endeavours of ancient men.

As I looked upon these stones in particular, I yielded for the first time a newfound sense of _unfamiliarity_.

The aesthetic of these stones differed, for they were decorated with carvings of a most intriguing form. They clearly bore images of a sort, depictions of folkloric scenes of which I confess to be most ignorant. There were no shapes of men or beasts written about in tales passed down from the likes of Mesoamericans. They appeared, for all intents and purposes, _indescribable_. They were so bizarre by nature that there was essentially no purpose or narrative behind their design of which I could aptly speak. Any attempt to even interpret their basic outline proved futile.

Admitting defeat, I moved on to the central altar. I felt a sudden chill as I stood before it, my breath steaming right before my eyes. This bemused me, as the fog clearly surrounded the stone circle and none emitted from the altar. I grew more intrigued as I investigated this place.

Overcome with curiosity, I decided to step upon the altar. I ignored any sense of wonder as to whether I would be stepping onto hallowed ground. I felt as if my life was cursed enough already. With a deep intake of breath, I placed my foot on the great stone table.

...

...

...


	6. Chapter 4: Memory

...

...

...

I stood at a doorway in a familiar hallway...taking advantage of the softness of my young feet, I leaned inconspicuously towards the small opening between the door and the frame, listening in to the voice of Mother as she conversed with her guest...

"...since my dear Winfield was committed after his breakdown. I lost one of my family, I simply cannot lose another. Howard is such a delicate little thing. Anything could happen."

Another voice, that of her friend spoke. "He is a smart boy, though, I'm sure he could take care of himself," she said.

"Smart men are just as vulnerable," Mother replied. "Howard loves to read but knows very little of the outside. He may not even be safe from his own mind, like poor Winfield. Last night, he had yet another nightmare."

"Which was it this time? Those...gaunt...things he mentioned?"

"No, the other one. The man who takes multiple forms and faces, the one that sometimes appears in some ghastly shape, leering at him. I tell you that imagination of his may be the death of him. He's far too delicate, too weak. I can't let him outside...who would care about such a poor, ugly little thing?..."

"...little thing..."

"Such a poor little thing."

That voice was different, a lower register, and I do not recall there being a second male guest in that room.

The scene shifted, for I was no longer in the hallway of what I recall as being the house of my grandfather. My position changed also as my mind span for eternity. I stood not as a juvenile but lay on my front as a young adult, my face pressed against a cold patch of grass. Pain shot across my side, like I had fallen from a small height. My head ached profusely as my eyes opened to catch sight of the man who spoke. It was a labour to move a muscle.

The first thing I saw was the stone altar.

 _ **"Pathetic outsider..."**_

Intense pain pierced my head as I cried out, terrified. That voice stood out most of all. Oh, the horror of it! Its tone was more than harsh, a composition of echoes filled with sheer hatred. It was no voice of a human, for sure. Desperate for even the smallest dose of sanity, I closed my eyes tightly, unaware as to how futile that was.

"It's okay. This place has that effect on everyone."

I opened my eyes again and the voice vanished, as if whoever spoke those harsh words finished its business with me for the time being. I could only hope it was the last time I heard the voice that seemed to devour the air around me.

My mind slowly recovering, I looked up towards the source of that other reassuring voice.

I saw a man dressed in the most sophisticated clothing, wearing a long black frock coat on top of a grey waistcoat and a purple cravat. His trousers were as dark as the coat, leading me to believe this man was most comfortable with blending into the background. I already felt like I could relate to this stranger. He was a most slender figure with a face whose features were riddled with what I could only describe as characteristic amusement, like nothing was a surprise for him but simply a source of entertainment. His hair was jaw-length, a dark brown. He leaned on a polished black cane.

"You came because of the beast, I presume," he said with a smile. His accent was distinctly British.

"How...did you...?"

"I consider myself the sole other of Providence who takes interest in this most fascinating occurrence. The apathy of the citizens intrigues me equally in that regard, to be honest. The capacity of humanity to overlook the most extraordinary things is..." he paused with a chuckle, "Well, I must not be too repetitious."

I was unsure of what to make of this individual. He spoke like I myself prefer to speak, and he dressed in an almost anachronistic fashion, and supposedly came from a culture which I hold in the highest esteem, the English nation.. These were characteristics I found most comforting in a fellow human. Yet I knew very little of him. To place such confidence and trust in a stranger, when I myself was by nature reserved. It was a novel experience like I never knew before.

"So..." he then said, "what do you make of this? A perpetual fog that covers the landscape. A creature which rhythmically patrols the hills that surround our humble city. And now a strange circle of stone with what can only be described as an anomaly in its centre, judging by your reaction when you stepped on it. I have a strong feeling that you have encountered more than you bargained for. Am I right?"

"It was beyond my expectations, I will admit. I've been intrigued by all this and wished to get to the bottom of it."

"Understandable," he said with a tilt of the head, "As an academic, I consider it my career to be intrigued by all things unusual. I suppose your curiosity is professional in nature?"

"I wouldn't consider amateur journalism a strict profession, but it is close enough."

"Made any progress in interpreting these occurrences? Any idea what they mean?"

"I have no clue. Any attempt to find answers yields only more questions."

"Perhaps, then, it would be worth joining forces, if you wish."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not alone in my research, sir. I am part of a small group which specialises in the subject of the peculiar."

"Really? I have not heard of them."

"We are humble by nature, and do not tend to advertise our existence. We are...not friends of outsiders, if you get my meaning."

The mention of this appealed to me. I saw this man quickly as a kindred spirit, and it seemed that he came from a community of such kind. People who valued uniqueness and the separation from others they saw as different. My mind raced with excitement, for the opportunity to perform research with similar minds. I was eager to be further acquainted with this man.

"I have not been given your name, sir," I said, extending my hand, "Mine is Howard. Howard Lovecraft."

"Ah, yes, I don't believe so," he shook my hand with a twinkle in his eye, "Professor N.S. Messenger, senior researcher of the Esoteric Society. You may simply refer to me as the Professor." He smiled.

"Very well, Professor," I smiled back, "I take it you were brought here because of the beast, like me? Because if so, we seem to be on the brink of a similar path. If that is also the case, we have a better chance of solving the case, if we do this together."

"It would appear so," he nodded, "however, that is not what began this research. The beast was merely a later entry in the case, a follow-up to something far more intriguing."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"To name it ' _who'_ would be more accurate. There is someone else involved, either directly or otherwise. Someone with a distinct title. They refer to themselves as 'The Doctor'."


	7. Chapter 5: The Society

Even while growing up as an introverted individual, I dreamed much of becoming part of a scholarly community with those who share a thirst for knowledge, participating in lengthy discussions on various subjects, from astronomy to mythology.

Never did I imagine that I would become a member of a society such as the one I was introduced to by Professor Messenger. Not only did that, but the idea of joining an institution that specialises in the abnormal seemed, to me, an idea that was practically impossible.

Immediately after making each other's acquaintance at the stone circle, the Professor and myself headed back towards the city. Nightfall was upon us, and yet it I felt comfortable, supposedly due to the company of my newfound acquaintance. He seemed to know where he was going, and I followed close behind.

Night was no stranger to me. Long have I enjoyed excursions when darkness fell, absorbing the silence and the solitude. If anything, it was this very night, when I journeyed towards the lair of the beast, from where the mist came, that I felt pure discomfort and fear once night fell.

Despite walking with a cane, the Professor had a remarkable stride, almost as if he barely needed it. If anything, the cane may as well have been a third leg.

As I followed him, his previous words floated in my mind. Besides the excitement of joining the Esoteric Society, I was also intrigued by this 'Doctor'. Who was he? Why would a physician be of such importance? The Professor referred to this person as 'they'. Did this mean there were several of these Doctors? Was it a group or a legacy?

After a long trek across and down the hills, we returned to Providence. I continued to follow the Professor to where his society was located. It was nowhere near the centre and took several turns through narrow streets to reach. I felt most fortunate to have met the Professor, for it would have been practically impossible to find, even when the building itself clearly had some historical value. It was an old building, which suited me to no end.

We entered, and the first thing that struck me in an otherwise unimpressive lobby was a golden plaque on the wall ahead of me. I went towards it to read the names of who I assumed were the executives of the society.

The Professor appeared to have read my mind and said, "They are the founders of this humble community. I am a senior academic here, but also their representative. There's my name there." He pointed to the middle of the list, where "N.S. Messenger" was carved in sophisticated lettering.

"I never asked," I then said curiously, "What do your initials stand for?"

The Professor looked at me for a second, and then chuckled. This man seemed quite easy to humour.

"I highly doubt that a question you would really want to be answered," he said, still smiling, "Let's just say my surname is easiest to pronounce out of the two, and my middle name is the most embarrassing. Please do not ask about my first name. Pronouncing it is an effort to many."

"What is your middle name?"

He hesitated for a few seconds, then answered, "Smith."

"Professor Smith-Messenger? Quite sophisticated."

"Yes...I suppose so. It does make up for the complexity of my first name, though I beg you to just call me Professor."

A moment of silence followed, and I turned back to read the plaque. It then struck me that the founders also named themselves in the same manner as the Professor, as well as how unusual they were:

 _"A.D. Sultan, Professor of Cosmology_

 _Y.S.S. Key, Professor of Philosophy_

 _C.R. Dreamer, Professor of Theology_

 _N.S. Messenger, Senior Representative and Professor of Anthropology_

 _B.G. Wood, Professor of Religious Studies_

 _N.C. Young, Professor of Mathematics_

 _H.F. King, Professor of Archaeology"_

The Professor supposedly read the perplexed expression on my face and spoke accordingly.

"We aren't exactly local. We come from different regions, all coming together for a single cause, and that involves knowledge."

"All difficult names to pronounce, I take it?" I asked.

"Essentially," he replied, "But what's in a name, when a man's purpose is more important?" He exhaled, an expression of suppressed mirth.

I turned away from the plaque. I felt a sense of discomfort when he told me of the foreign nature of those individuals. Perhaps it was because of my aversion to those I considered strangers towards the familiar. I grew up afraid of the other, keeping to myself lest I endanger myself to those of whom I knew and understood very little. Shaking the feeling off, I pressed on to the matter at hand.

"You spoke of someone known as the Doctor," I said, "You mentioned him like he is a part of this whole affair. Is he a member here? Can he help with this whole thing?"

The Professor did not answer immediately, instead pausing for thought. Then he answered.

"The Doctor...a peculiar title. It refers to a man of science, who relishes in the art of learning. Either that or an individual who focuses on the betterment of others. He does not work here, that much is for sure. He prefers to work alone or with a select group of his choosing. As for whether he can help? Partially, it would seem. There have been no records of any dealings with the creature that has been wandering the hills, but the mist? Well, that remains to be seen..."

"Is there any way of contacting this Doctor? And what is this person a Doctor of?"

"A Doctor of everything, I hear. And I'm afraid he is not around at the moment. He moves around a lot, it would seem."

Not much use then, I thought. I moved on to a matter which bothered me when we left the stone circle.

"When you first mentioned the subject, you referred to the Doctor as 'them'. Does that mean there is more than one? Is there a group of academics who study the paranormal like we do?"

The Professor did not smile this time, and looked deeply pensive once again, supposedly searching for an accurate response. After a few seconds and a deep breath, he spoke.

"It is late," he said, "and an inappropriate time for deep thought for both of us, I think. Come back tomorrow, and I will share with you what I have found."

Fighting back my disappointment, I asked, "On the Doctor?"

"Yes, and how these individuals, as you refer to them, have appeared across human history, some of them appearing at least centuries one period after the other, like time travellers."


	8. Chapter 6: The Unnamed

I returned to the Esoteric Society with eagerness, most certain this time as to where it was thanks to the Professor's guidance. I was invited to his office, and was awestruck by its contents.

It was most refined and well kept. A polished desk stood firmly in the middle of the small room, but that was not what caught my attention. It was what hung on the walls that engaged me. From newspaper cuttings of bizarre sightings to paintings of landscapes I couldn't hope to imagine. One such painting depicted a landscape of significant imagery. It was so ethereal and so beautiful that it was indescribable. The easiest part of the painting to interpret was a castle in the background, standing in contrast to the rest of the setting. A plaque on the bottom part of the frame read "Dreams of Home".

The Professor spoke from behind me once I read it, "A favourite of mine that. It really encourages deep thought in me."

"Where is this set?" I asked.

"A far off place. I forget its name. I forget if it even has one, to be honest. I'm getting old." He sat himself down in his polished chair behind the desk, and invited me to sit in the chair opposite him. I obliged.

"So," he said as I sat, "you too are curious about this Doctor."

"It is a subject I find as intriguing as what we have been searching for so far." I admitted.

The Professor nodded, and leaned to a drawer on his right. From there, he took a small pile of papers. After sorting through them, he took out what appeared to be several photographs. He passed them to me wordlessly. I went through them slowly, examining not only photographs but also sketches and supposedly written accounts of different individuals who I presumed to be the one who held the title of the Doctor:

Two photographs of Roman bas-reliefs made of marble, each one depicting a man of clearly high stature. The first was an elderly man dressed in a toga, with shoulder length hair that grew around the back of his head and a stern expression on his face. The other was a much younger man, tall and proud with messily upstanding hair, and dressed in the most utterly anachronistic clothing, wearing a form of coat and suit which seemed to surpass even my time.

There was a written account of an encounter with the Doctor, most recently in fact, by a soldier from the Mexican Civil War that began seven years before. It was written in Spanish but a translation was attached to it, presumably by the Professor. The soldier went by the name of Arturo Villar, and he wrote of an encounter with a stranger, the leading pacifist in a world ruled by ambitious warmongers. The stranger was described as a stout man, unkempt and carefree yet cunning by nature, quite different in terms of personality from the first two in fact.

The next was a 13th-century manuscript, written by a scholar who served in the court of Edward of Essex. The scholar wrote of an elder gentleman who was involved with criminals on Lord Edward's land, kidnapping scientists from a distant era.

"That account is unfinished, I might add," the Professor pointed out.

The accounts continued. A page taken from a journal written by a Mr George Litefoot, of a tall and eccentric man dressed like a typical London sleuth who investigated a 'Chinese god' and a 'giant rat beneath the streets'. A manuscript from 1215 of a young cricketer who assured the signing of the Magna Carta. The sketch of a curly-haired stranger from a mining village in the 19th century. There was an account of another stout man, albeit with a more sinister demeanour; the document was written by Geoffrey of Monmouth himself, who wrote of a man of this stature, the title of the Doctor included among the names of Arthurian legend.

"I do not recall reading this page," I said, perplexed.

"This is not a published document," the Professor answered, "It was found among Geoffrey's private writings."

"How did you manage to come by it?"

"It was an arduous process, I will admit," he smiled, "but at least we came by it. Well worth the search, I must say."

I went back to the records. There was a page from another private journal, this time by Mary Shelley, a writer whose work fascinated me, especially her most famous, the title of which need not be mentioned. She wrote of experiences with a man with long brown hair who was dressed in Victorian clothing, as well as an encounter with (and I quote) 'an inspiration to her finest work'.

I found a document by Queen Elizabeth the First, of her kingdom being saved by the same tall man on the Roman bas-relief, accompanied by an old man dressed like he was fighting in a war, along with a young man dressed in anachronistic clothing that, like the person from Shelley's journal, dated from the Victorian era.

"Skip that last one," interrupted the Professor, "You will see him again later."

I nodded, and then asked, "Do we know which war the old man fought in?"

"There are no accounts, but I can safely say that it must have been a terrible one, judging by the description of his appearance."

"You've seen much war yourself?" I inquired, glancing at his cane.

"I'm no fighter," he said, "Rather beneath me, to be honest. I would much rather keep to the sides, observing from a safe distance."

"A man of peace then."

"If you like, yes."

A photograph of a man with short hair standing tall next to a family called the Daniels, taken a day before the Titanic was set for departure. A painting of the 1814 frost fair in London, with a pencil circle around an elder man with silver hair, dressed in period-appropriate clothing this time. An engraving of an execution of women accused of witchcraft; among the crowd was an anachronistically-dressed individual different from the others...a woman.

"So this must be a group for sure," I suggested, "and they appear to recruit women."

"Quite progressive for 17th-century society, for sure, let alone today. Interesting suggestion, I might add, but how do you explain the young man on the Roman bas-relief? The description of one of the three who saved the kingdom of Elizabeth I appears to fit that of the former, does it not?"

"That is true," I said, nodding slowly, "You mentioned the other, younger man among the three, that there is more to him. Which file is that?"

He pointed to a paper that I placed on the desk as I sifted through the others. It was a document written by a London detective in 1893.

"This is what we're looking for," the Professor said, "A paper of particular interest to Professor Key himself."

"But why?" I asked, "What is the significance of this one in particular?"

"This is the paper which suggests a connection between the Doctor and the phenomenon that has taken hold of this town. For you see, there is a name behind this whole thing."

"What is the name?" I eagerly asked.

"Are you familiar with a concept known as the 'Threshold'?"


	9. Chapter 7: Of the Threshold

"The Threshold?" I asked.

"Yes, something known by very few, but sought by many, as the phrase goes."

"But what is it?"

"It is said to be the one way to access knowledge itself, to be able to know everything. It is a gift any researcher would die for."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It sounded fantastic. Long did I wish to discover truths that haunted me, and long have I found sheer enjoyment in the practice of learning. An unopened book was an opportunity to become immersed in the realms separate from harsh reality.

It was also a personal quest. I had always wished to understand more about the purpose of my own existence, and why it was fraught with misfortune.

I remembered the tears of my mother on the day of my father's permanent departure, for the good of his own sanity, they told me. For years, I wished to know why it was that my family and I suffered so, why I was the way I was. Perhaps, at last, I was on the way to finding out. It was as if my life was finally given good fortune!

"So, this Threshold, is it a place? Where is it found?"

"A very good question, one presumably related to what we are investigating. I have reason to believe that it is located at the stone circle. I am convinced that whoever constructed it did so as a temple to knowledge, or a deity who represents it."

"It would be a good idea to revisit that place, I think. I suppose it explains where the beast came from. We could be looking at another world on the other side..."

I was lost for words at that point. I felt excited.

"Bear in mind, however, that the beast only turns up at certain points. It is possible that this applies to the Threshold as well. Perhaps it too opens only at certain points.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Continue reading that paper."

I did so, and read the following:

 _"...Hopefully, this would be the last of our affair with Doctor Simeon and his hideous followers. Of course, I use the name 'Simeon' as a pseudonym for the real name of the entity he represented. The experience I went through is enough for me to prefer the use of the mundane here. It is a comfort compared to the true nature of the thing. I thought it a mere creature like the many we, that is my allies and I, encounter on a regular basis, but I discovered that it was something far, far worse...and something so close to victory, at the cost of the universe itself._

 _The name it used was 'The Intelligence'. It acted as a consciousness, disembodied and seemingly originating from nowhere. From what the Doctor told me, however, I feel like I was better off not knowing. Its true name I do not dare utter. As far as I'm concerned, it is gone, and I consider that most fortunate, for the sake of all of us."_

I was more intrigued than before at this point. "What do they speak of?"

"There is another legend. It contrasts with the other, in the sense that it involves the danger of omniscience. For some say that the Threshold is not the key to knowledge of all, but does in fact lead to the knowledge of something forbidden."

I scoffed. "How convenient." As I said that, however, the whole affair began to unsettle me. This detective mentioned something unusual but would not describe it, for reasons that clearly unsettled them. The lack of a proper description, the use of pseudonyms. This was something that fascinated me, but I also grew afraid of it at the same time. The fact that it named itself 'The Intelligence' seemed to bear some resemblance to the story behind the Threshold, but I dared not think about that.

"This was written in 1893," I told the Professor, "so some time has passed since. Has there been any progress made on what this detective is talking about? Do you know what this thing is?"

"There are countless theories as to what it is, but that is it." The Professor made a funny look, like there was something he wasn't telling me.

"Well, that is helpful." I murmured. "I suppose it is some consolation that it is no longer around."

"Ah, well as to that, I am not entirely sure."

"What do you mean?"

"I honestly believe that this is a world where nothing is ever that simple. The Intelligence may be gone, but does that mean it is no more? Ask yourself this: given that you know very little of this thing, how do you know it is truly gone, and not dwelling somewhere we know not?"

"Why does it call itself the Intelligence?"

"Sometimes it calls itself that, sometimes it calls itself the Great Intelligence. Both are titles that seem to say much about the one who uses them. Not necessarily of the entity itself, but of the way it sees others...how far beneath they are compared to it.

I read the rest of the detective's notes and it would appear that this Intelligence has existed in our world for quite some time, wandering from place to place as if with purpose. I believe it is an extension of something greater, somehow finding its way into this dimension. The notes described how the Intelligence attempted a final act against the Doctor, supposedly an act of vengeance."

"So…is that true?"

"A good question..." The room felt darker and colder, "We don't even know where it now dwells, whatever it is, so how can we hope to ask it? More to the point, do we even _want_ to know?"

"I...I'm not really..."

 _"Perhaps this is what awaits us beyond the Threshold...?"_


	10. Chapter 8: The Outsider

Since I was a child, my nights terrors came often. I dreamed of things I could never understand, horrors that came from the dark, leering at me with their hideous faces.

At the very least I hope they were faces, for the rush and the sporadic nature of the images compelled me to decipher the closest thing I could to whatever was looking at me with those ghastly features.

One such terror that stood amidst them was one that I feared most particularly. It was a man...except when it wasn't, for his form changed every night. I began to think it was a different face every time I fell asleep, until each one would change to the same one each time. This same face woke me up with its malignant appearance, its gaping mouth frozen in what appeared to be a perpetual scream. The image of its face was warped, however the latter seemed elongated, its head seemingly reaching out like a tentacle. Throughout my youth, that face, disguised in many other forms, would appear from the dark of my dreams, not every night, but any night, tormenting me with its silent scream.

This night of terrors felt like the worst of them all. It was not long after I returned home, from my second meeting with the Professor.

His words echoed in my head as I lay in bed, reluctant to fall to sleep. I could not stop thinking about his theory of the Threshold, and whatever thing was connected to it. The whole concept may seem absurd to some, but something about it unnerved me. The idea that whatever existed beyond those hills, somewhere within that stone circle, was alive...if one could describe it as such. The suggestion that the key to the answer to my countless questions of my existence contained something even the Professor himself could not describe. I continued to lay in my bed, and felt no closer to falling asleep.

After the Professor's unsettling description of this strange entity, we went on to discuss the Doctor lineage and their involvement with it. I enquired about their allegiance, and how such people no different to us - except for sense of dress - could overcome an abstract being such as the Intelligence.

It is upon writing this that I begin to think about that face again. I imagine it as a single, repugnant entity who takes multiple forms, based on how these different forms in my dreams reverted back to that one monstrosity. It is now that I remember the lineage of the Doctor and begin to put two together.

What if the Doctor was not human?

An outlandish notion, but I strive to ensure that my imagination serves as a skill as well as a curse. I use my experience with that many-faced thing, albeit as a dream, to suggest that the Doctor is in fact a single individual, someone who originated from beyond, who can assume various identities and who can somehow exist across history. There was nothing more representative of the other, nothing more inhuman. Of all the things I have experienced personally, including the Mist that came to Providence and the Beast that wanders the hills, the Doctor was just as intriguing.

I never even met this Doctor, and yet I felt a connection between us, things we had in common. I have always seen myself as an outsider, a stranger in my time and among my own kin. It would appear that the Doctor is one also, a person who looks like us yet could not be more different. Such discomfort, for there is nothing that I fear more than the other, those who are unfamiliar to my kind.

The reasons for this are many, but it is probably because of my opinion of my own self. I fear myself, so I distrust the other.

Even now, the words of the Professor continue to echo, his reflection upon the Doctor, nonsensical to me at the time, but partially making more sense as I presently write these words:

"The Doctor. Such a curious thing, that someone could appear so mundanely human yet could also radiate such...unfamiliarity. He appears throughout time and space, they say, with many faces yet the same person underneath. I always felt like there was much in common between the both of us. Except I always see Them as someone with a rebellious spirit, so unwilling to bow to the orders of those above, even those of Their own kin. I, on the other hand, consider order of this kind to be essential for just that. I value the words of my superiors strongly and would know better than to argue with them. In spite of that, I see so much of myself in Them, the intelligent yet renegade; the apparently mundane yet profoundly inhuman. Someone we should either admire...or fear."

Those words went through me even as I tried to sleep hours after he said them. In the meantime, my determination to discover the truth overwhelmed me. I decided that I was going back to the stone circle the next day.

I drifted away, hopefully prepared for the face of the Crawling Horror in my dreams, and definitely prepared for another excursion to the place from where the Mist and the Beast came.

The first thing that came to me as I slept was that voice from the circle.

 _ **"Outsider...pathetic..."**_


	11. Chapter 9: Beyond the Wall

Before I headed for the hills, I went to the Esoteric Society to invite the Professor, only to receive no response after knocking his office door. Perhaps he went on to study it himself. I moved on and made my way to the hills. A brief but strong gust of wind welcomed me as I left the Society, its howl echoing through the narrow street. As I walked into the forceful air, I thought I caught a glimpse of something before I closed my eyes in waiting for the gust to end. Once I opened my eyes, I saw nothing out of the ordinary, as if whatever I believed to see simply vanished into the ether. Dismissing this as nothing but a result of my small period of sleep, I continued onward.

Around an hour later, I reached the tops of the mounts bordering the western edges of Providence. I recalled the path I took for the stone circle and maintained my balance over the rough surface of the unbeaten path, but not before I looked back over the city, and saw that the fog had lessened a little. The cityscape I was so familiar with became slightly more visible. That familiar feeling of comfort I loved so returned to me.

I passed a tree that I did not remember seeing during my first journey, undoubtedly due to the profound darkness of the night. It was a most desolate thing, gnarled and crooked, standing tall yet bent over the path nearby. It looked as if all life was taken from it, leaving only a wooden husk that stood as a memorial of its unfortunate placement at the time of its untimely fate. I looked unto the sorry-looking sentry of the hilltop one last time, before I continued my stride.

The circle looked a little different when I saw it for a second time. The fog that pervaded the city yet was thinner here during my last visit was much thicker this time, as if it all returned to its point of origin.

Perhaps to the place beyond the Threshold...?

I headed straight to the altar in anticipation. I was so eager that I failed to notice the hulking frame of the beast standing just outside the circle.

I was seized with panic! I was finally facing this thing, and yet I was unprepared, for what could I hope to do to such a creature?

Then it finally hit me as I realised what was happening as I stood in desperate thought.

The beast was not moving. And its piercing lamp-like eyes were not visible.

I was no longer terrified, but still apprehensive as I stepped precariously towards the cryptid.

I was standing right in front of it before I knew it. I touched its front, awaiting some form of response.

Nothing.

The beast was huge, as tall as the shrivelled tree I passed. It was bent over, staring at me with the blackness where its eyes once were, a deep patch of nothing that was almost cloaked with its thick fur.

As I inspected the thing, I came across something strange. It was a flap of thick skin covered with fur. I then realised it was covering something; it was a cavity in the creature's gut, a deep chasm in its body that, in spite of my initial revulsion, did not feel fleshy. It was soft but not soaked in blood. Disgust flowed through me as I remarked on how unnatural this was. Swallowing my reluctance, I lifted the flap to see what was inside.

It almost felt like a hanging mass of thin tentacles, except I highly doubt that tentacles would naturally be as tough as these. Except for the mass of these strange things, the space inside was hollow. There was no reaction from the creature. Was it dead?

I continued to feel through, examining the texture of the "tentacles" further. I gripped one.

I lurched and was thrown out of the creature as it moved suddenly.

As I lay back on the ground, struggling to regain my footing, I was looking at two harsh lights inside a great and hairy mass that towered over me.

I scrambled to get back on my feet. When I did, the beast walked towards me, its hands outstretched in a motion to take hold of me. I turned and ran. Noticing the altar, I went to climb on top of it, hoping the Threshold would be open to me and would take me in. It seemed a much better chance of escape to me than an endless run through the wilderness, where I would run a high risk of being caught before I could reach Providence. Without hesitation, I ran across the altar and jumped.

The instant I did this, the voices returned, harsher than ever.

 _ **"YOU...DARE...!"**_

 _ **"...PUNY...!"**_

 _ **"...INFERIOR...!"**_

 _ **"TRESPASS...!"**_

I fell as they filled my head, echoing horribly. It was worse than before, as if I could never escape from it. I felt like I was struggling to no avail as insanity seized me. I saw faces float before me. My mother, my father, my grandfather, the faces I saw in my dreams twisting into identities beyond recognition, followed by that ghastly entity that haunted me so.

This time, however, I could hear the scream, and how terrible it was! It was an unearthly roar, filled with both outright rage and sheer hate. At least that was the closest I could identify it as, it was so inhuman.

And then, as I was close to succumbing, the voices and the images ceased, and I stood in complete darkness.

I began to feel around for something, hoping that, wherever I ended up, there was at least something of a material nature, and that I was not alone. I hoped that the story of the Threshold was true, if only so I could be certain that there was at least something that existed here.

I finally touched something, and I immediately began to wish that my hopes had not come to pass.


	12. Chapter 10: The Thing in the Mist

Skin.

The first thing I touched after entering this silent realm was human skin.

It felt decayed, like it was close to falling into pieces as I touched it. This split second of revulsion pulled my hand away from what I believed to be the corpse of someone who never succeeded in leaving this place, a thought which sent a shiver down my spine. Was there no escape from this abyss?

I felt around for any other form of texture, hopefully that of stone or wood, anything that did not consist of the remnants of a once-doomed cadaver.

There was clearly some ground, a rough surface of stone, I assumed. I hoped this was a realm of similar dimension to the world I called home, and that there were walls. I turned back to where I found the body, as a thought struck me. _Walls._ The body was level with my face, so there must have been a wall of some kind.

With a mere tip of my finger, I went to locate the body and traced it downwards until it was level with my foot. As I did, the texture changed to multiple varieties. The strangest thing about this was, there was a different texture every five centimetres or so, and the sensations ranged from better or worse than the skin of the body.

There were scales, then there was fur, then more human skin, either normal, soft or rough, covered in blisters or some leprous condition. Every sensation was stone cold to the touch. To my increasing dismay, I began to think that there were many visitors before me, dozens of seekers of knowledge, each as unfortunate as the last. At this moment, I realised that I was in fact touching a wall of corpses.

I traced my finger sideways along this deathly wall and quickly came to its end, reaching a small gap before I found another wall that was similar to the one before; same variety of textures, only ordered differently and composed of new touches even more bizarre than before. Amidst my growing repugnance was a small spot of hope: I was gradually finding out more about this place, and this newfound gap would allow me to inspect the other sides of the wall. I reached into the gap and traced my hand along the right side of the first wall and the left side of the second.

I received the distinct sensation of parchment, consisting of a countless pile of papers.

Feeling around, I sensed a gap between each pile, made of leather. Were these the covers?

These were not walls I was touching. They were tall piles of books. Thick, leather bound tomes of unknown content bound further with the skin of decadent bodies.

I stepped quickly away from this grisly discovery, as far as I could. I stumbled past them, desperate for some sort of light. The darkness was so thick and felt so icy cold, I held my head in despair and pain. I leaned against the piles of books for support in spite of myself, the pain was so overwhelming. The piles continued as I moved forward.

Then I saw a light straight ahead of me. It was shining down on something. Overcome with desperation for a source of comfort away from the morbid pile of tomes, I headed towards it.

The object that bathed in the spotlight was an altar. It was smaller than the one in the stone circle. Upon it sat a large book, bound visibly in leather. It was the first book I found in this place that was not covered with skin. But that was not what caught my eye.

It was the golden plaque on the front, the apparent title of the book inscribed on it.

It was my own name.

There was writing beneath that, but it required a great deal of concentration to read it. I leaned forward for closer inspection.

 _ **"DO YOU VALUE THE POWER BEYOND THE THRESHOLD SO STRONGLY?"**_

The harshness and the volume of the voice startled me, forcing me off my feet and onto my back. As I regained my posture, I looked around for where the voice came from.

"Who said that? Who are you?" I asked, apprehensive.

 _ **"SOMEONE YOU SHOULD CONSIDER YOURSELF FORTUNATE TO SPEAK TO, INTRUDER,"**_ it replied. Its voice was both a hiss and a booming tone mixed into a single, piercing sound. It felt cold to even listen to it, like the mist had a voice. The inside of my head echoed as it spoke, like it was inside me. Throughout my life beforehand, I never encountered something so...unfamiliar. It made my nightmares seem like that of any other human being, mere fantasies of a troubled imaginative mind compared to the abominable voice of intelligence that spoke to me. _**"YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST TO HAVE COME HERE, PUNY MORTAL, SO TELL ME WHY I SHOULD NOT DESTROY YOU FOR TRESPASSING UPON MY REALM."**_

"I-I understand that this is where the source of knowledge is kept," I replied cautiously, searching for the right words that might be able to spare my life, "I was wondering if you would be so kind as to inform me how I could find it."

What followed was a sound so horrific, I winced. It resembled laughter, I suppose, though it was so different to any laughter I ever heard. It felt like the entire cosmos shook, and it felt like I was haunted by this sound my entire life, and would continue to be until I died. When the voice spoke again, its tone was mocking.

 _ **"THAT IS WHAT YOU BELIEVE. YOU WERE TOLD THAT THE SOURCE OF ALL KNOWLEDGE DWELLS HERE, AND YOU, A CREATURE NOT EVEN WORTH A NANOSECOND OF MY INFINITE TIME, WISHES TO OBTAIN IT."**_ I noticed that the voice said this not as an interrogation but as a statement, like it somehow knew what I wanted.

 _ **"TRUTH IS VULNERABLE,"**_ it then said, _**"IT CAN BE DISTORTED UNTIL LITTLE IS LEFT OF IT. WHAT YOU HEARD IS HALF TRUTH, MICROBE. THE SOURCE OF ALL KNOWLEDGE DOES DWELL HERE...FOR**_ **I** _**AM THAT SOURCE!"**_

"But...but I heard that the Intelligence-"

Then it struck me.

"You. Whoever I am addressing, _you_ are the Intelligence."

 _ **"ONE OF THE MANY DESIGNATIONS I HAVE BEEN GIVEN,"**_ it replied with an audible sneer, _**"SOME MAY REFER TO ME ALSO AS THE**_ _**GREAT INTELLIGENCE, THE THRESHOLD, THE KEY TO ALL, THE ONE FROM BEYOND, THE DWELLER ON THE DOORSTEP, THE MOST ANCIENT AND PROLONGED... ... ..."**_

The utterances that subsequently came from that dreadful mouth were so different from the titles it expressed that they resembled nothing more than incoherent sounds that could have originated from none other than the baneful Abyss itself. They bellowed and bleated, a blasphemous cacophony that offended my pained ears.

The closest I could interpret from a mere part of those sounds was a marginally less incomprehensible sound:

 _ **"...YYY-...OUUG-...SHHO...PPPTHO...PPPPTTTHHHPP..."**_

The sound pained my ears further.

"I get it!" I cried, my hands against my ears imploringly.

 _ **"IT PAINS YOU TO HEAR THE TRUE NAMES?"**_ it asked in mocking pity, _**"I WARNED YOU OF THE DANGER THAT TRUTH BEARS. YOU SEEK ANSWERS AND YET YOU CANNOT FATHOM MY NAMES? ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN HANDLE WHAT YOU SEEK?"**_

I did not reply. I was overwhelmed by the amount of questions I had. I passed on the investigation I was going through, as the answers to that were mostly evident. The Threshold and the Intelligence were as one, the holder and the source of knowledge itself that existed in a place I knew not where. And that was it. I did not know where I was. For all I knew, the gate to the Threshold took me to a realm in a dimension completely separate from the one in which I lived. I did not know, nor did I understand, and I was afraid. I could tell for certain that the thing I was speaking to was behind the phenomena that occurred; I felt a sense of familiarity in this place similar to what I felt when I walked through that mist, the silver presence that covered Providence like a form of entity. The beast was presumably a sentry that came from here, watching over the city from the hills on behalf of its disembodied master. Either that, or it existed to attract curious bystanders to their fate. Was that how some of those bound corpses were brought here?

"What are these books?" I asked, "What are they for?"

 _ **"EVERY KEEPER OF KNOWLEDGE NEEDS THEIR TOMES. FOR HERE LIES INFORMATION ON EVERY BEING THAT HAS EXISTED, EXISTS AND WILL ONE DAY EXIST. EVERY HISTORY, INCLUDING YOUR OWN."**_

I looked back towards the book on the small altar. So, in that tome was written my life, beginning with my birth and ending with my death.

I was lost in thought once again, dwelling on myself and the misfortunes of my life, of why they happened to me. I thought of the possible whereabouts of the ones I lost, if they were indeed somewhere and not faded into mere memory. Did I have the right to know of that place we go when we reach that place of doom, if that even existed? Would the knowledge of oblivion be the oblivion of my own mind? I began to think that some things were best left unanswered, and that fear of the other inherent in my self-loathing drove me further from that particular desire for discovery.

So, I turned to the final riddle. This thing claimed to be able to harm me, and I had yet to see its face. I wished to know of the ones who faced him, and came out victorious.

"The Doctor," I said, "What do you know of them? I heard they defeated you. I heard that you escaped yet here you sit, in the darkness. I have not read of any other accounts so I presume you have admitted defeat. If you are as powerful as you claim, then I ask that you show yourself."

Upon asking this, I felt the ground shake beneath my feet, almost throwing me off balance. I then felt a strange sensation, like some form of primordial anger, a cold bitterness that radiated from the air around me. Then, the Intelligence spoke with a voice that shook the place.

 _ **"THE ARROGANCE OF THAT ONE,"**_ it boomed, _**"TO THINK THAT ANYONE COULD EVER HOPE TO DEFEAT**_ **ME** _ **! I, THE GREAT INTELLIGENCE! I CAME TO YOUR UNIVERSE AND LEARNED MUCH FROM IT.**_ _**I FACED THE DOCTOR MANY TIMES AND ELUDED DEFEAT JUST AS MUCH. I INFILTRATED YOUR PAST, YOUR PRESENT AND YOUR FUTURE, AND I KNOW OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF YOUR KIND...HOW VERY PATHETIC, THAT YOUR HUMAN ENDEAVOURS CAN EVEN HOPE TO SURVIVE**_ **US!** _ **THEY SAY I WAS PUSHED FROM YOUR REALM, WHEN I MERELY SOUGHT TO LEAVE IT FROM THE BEGINNING, LEST I FELL PREY TO THOSE INSIGNIFICANT LITTLE THINGS YOU CALL "EMOTIONS"! I HAVE LEFT YOUR UNIVERSE AND I CAN RETURN THERE! I**_ **HAVE** _ **RETURNED THERE, NOT THAT YOUR WORLD IS OF ANY IMPORTANCE. IT WILL FALL, AND NONE OF YOUR HUMAN ADVANCEMENTS WILL BE OF USE. YOU ARE TINY, BENEATH EVEN THE SO-CALLED LORDS OF TIME WHO WATCH OVER THE COSMOS LIKE ARROGANT USURPERS OF OUR KIND. YOU BELIEVE I CAN BE DEFEATED? I**_ **AM** _ **TIME AND SPACE, WATCHING THE ENTIRETY OF CREATION FROM BEYOND THE WALLS OF REALITY! I EXIST OUTSIDE AND YET I CAN SEE WHAT OCCURS INSIDE. I SEE YOU, AND EVERYTHING YOU DO, NO MATTER WHERE YOU HIDE!**_

 _ **"YOU WISH TO SEE MY TRUE FORM, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE MAN? YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE YOU WERE MEANT TO COME HERE, AND HAVE THE RIGHT TO OBTAIN KNOWLEDGE, WHEN IT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN YOUR FOOLISH CURIOSITY? THERE IS NO FATE IN THIS AFFAIR. YOU ARE A HUMAN LIKE ANY OTHER, WHO CAME TO THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME. THE BOOK IS NOT YET COMPLETE, AND I CAN FINISH IT RIGHT HERE, UPON THE FULFILMENT OF YOUR OWN REQUEST: YOU WISH TO SEE THE TRUTH OF MY FACE? THEN BEHOLD! BE MERELY ONE OF MANY WHO HAS GAZED UPON THE TRUE FORM OF THE GREAT INTELLIGENCE...AND CONSEQUENTLY LOSES THEMSELVES!"**_

The darkness lifted as I caught sight of towers of books big and small, surrounding me like mountains of knowledge bound in the remnants of individuals who were robbed from the grave. Beyond these towers existed I knew not what, for the mist in this place was so dense I could only see a few metres before me. I saw the book that bore my name beginning to open, before I looked up to the face of the Great Intelligence.

...

...

...

 _Note to self: This is where the memories end. Try as I might, I simply cannot recall what happened the moment I caught sight of Its true form. All I remember is being taken by someone from behind me, and a howl of wind. The next thing, I woke up several days later, my memory of the past day or so practically erased...until now, hence the purpose of this memoir._

 _Is this a deliberate design? Am I not meant to gaze upon the features of an entity from beyond?_

 _There is perhaps some truth to what I stated above, that some truths are not meant for the eyes of mere mortals like myself. Or it is simply a case of truths being so unfathomable, so complex in their design, that even the greatest minds could not even begin to conceive it._

 _I never believed that I could be more fearful of the Other and what it represents. Long have I been haunted by that which I consider unfamiliar, since I began to lose those I loved, since I witnessed and experienced pain and suffering. By distancing myself from this grim world, and studying it from a safe haven that is the places I consider comforting, I attempt to distance myself from the Other as best I can. It is that distance that aids me in my maintaining what little sanity I might have._

 _I never saw the Professor again. The Esoteric Society closed also. Perhaps he moved on to other projects, or he discovered the truth for himself and moved on. Either way, it would seem that his task is done..._

 _So concludes, for now that is, my recollection of what happened then, the time of my life where my eyes were opened as to what the terrors in my mind truly represent. I may have forgotten those events until now, but fragments endured throughout my remaining years, and they have influenced me ever since. I owe my work to my experiences, and perhaps my memory was deliberately erased, to allow me to write of the ideas that plague my mind, as a subliminal warning to mankind...of the things that hunt and torment us, unseen but manifest._

 _This is the one work I will not leave to be seen by the world. For they will have learned enough already, and I will not be the one who directs them to the Threshold. They would most likely be less unfortunate if they went there, either losing their minds or ending up in that cadaverous library. I can now rest in the knowledge that I have performed my role, however small, in the attempt to warn humanity of what awaits them beyond._

 **\- HP Lovecraft**


	13. Them

The door creaked open.

Howard was in his bed, weak and dangerously ill. His time was near, and he barely stirred when he saw the cloaked figure walk in. He was in so much pain that he winced as he sat up. He could not see the figure's face, for the room was dark, the last candle about to go out. Howard could not bring it upon himself to light another.

"It's you, isn't it," he said, his voice tightened, "Didn't I have ice cream with you once? Anyway..." He pointed to his desk. "There, in that drawer. It's in there. I take it that's what you're after. If you're truly who you say you are, then I trust you will keep it safe, away from the wrong hands. That's the last thing we want, though I'm sure you know that already."

The figure walked to the desk and opened the drawer. They took out a leather-bound book, which they put in the pocket of their coat.

Howard lay back in bed. "My part is done," he said, "Now, I must rest. I fear my strength is gone. Damn intestine, it's been causing me such pain."

The figure walked towards the door without a word.

"I want to thank you," Howard said suddenly with some effort, "I don't believe I would have come this far if it weren't for you."

He closed his eyes, and the stranger left the dark room silently.

After leaving the house, they took out the book once they found a street lamp, and read through it, writing a small note of their own for reference in the prologue.

Ever since that incident in 1917, Howard's memories of it returned to him slowly as his mind aged. He had an important role to play and it was essential to maintain his mind for the sake of it, the stranger supposed.

They knew of Howard's writings so well, having read them with grim fascination. They were familiar with the likes of Azathoth, of Yog Sothoth, and the many eldritch ones that existed in places of which we know and understand very little. They knew of the Crawling Chaos, and how it exists among us, and that was of particular interest to them, for very few know of his true nature.

Satisfied with the success of their task, the stranger returned the book to their coat pocket and departed, disappearing into the darkness of the street.


End file.
